A proud but lonely woman reaches out from her mental and physical prison that is life for her these days. Whereas before she would sooner have died than ask a favour and admit she is lonely, she is now driven to cry for help at all hours, all sense of time lost in a haze of utter misery.
Call after call after call she makes, often only a minute apart: 10, 20, 30, 40 even 50 in but a few hours, all to fall on the deaf ears of an answering machine. Each plaintiff message tearing at the heart when finally the messages are replayed, our love alone is not sufficient to nurture that aching heart and its simple needs.
So intense is her anguish, so extreme her behaviour that this is almost how her life now is. The simple existence of sleeping intermittently, feeding when the body demands and smoking herself silly are the background and the only respite are the trips to buy still more cigarettes, wine, simple foods, toilet rolls, kitchen towels and dog food.
No wonder the monotony drives her to lose all sense of perspective as she dials that same number for the umpteenth time in ten minutes only to ask the most banal questions as an excuse for calling or to bare her soul and plead for company in an unashamed, despairing outcry. How deep the pain must be to force her to surrender that pride and reach out so desperately. How deeply sad is our almost total impotence in the face of such glaring agony.
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